50 Grades of Shay
by CommanderLexaTrash
Summary: 50 drabbles about Spencer really trying, but struggling, to succeed in art school. Based on a challenge from tumblr user illuminating-socks! Fun, silly, and short-give it a try!
1. Fall Freshman: Sculpting 101

**Hi there! I got the idea for this from tumblr, specifically user metrovirus who prompted, "a book/movie about Spencer from iCarly struggling in art school called 50 Grades of Shay." Fantastic iCarly/Spencer Shay fan blog illuminating-socks reblogged the post and challenged someone to write it, so here I go! I hope to go 50 short chapters. If you have any ideas, be sure to let me know! Hope you enjoy :)  
**

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Grade 1: Sculpting 101

Spencer was sure his project would get an A.

He wanted to start the school year off with a bang. No, bigger. A KABOOM! Which is precisely why he enlisted his buddy Socko's cousin Boomer to help him with the fireworks. Spencer found a giant, rusted wheel at the junkyard that he smoothed down and painted bright red. On top of the wheel, he adorned the fireworks with the utmost precision and care. He was going to blow his professor away, and then his dad and granddad would understand that he was born to do this: he was meant to be an artist.

At least, that's what he told himself as he spent hours toiling away in the sculpture studio on the bottom floor of the art building. Spencer never envisioned himself at college—he was more of a "get stuff done" kind of guy. He didn't _need_ school to make him better. He was already great! School only sapped away at your creativity, passion, and talent while it bogged you down with boring lessons about technique and patience. Who needed patience?!

It was two in the morning, and Spencer was still in the basement. He had turned on an upbeat radio station and was basically dripping caffeine into his veins to help him stay focused. He took a step back from his project and observed: it was _perfect. _The fireworks, placed like spokes on a wheel on the bright red backdrop, really made a statement about, um…

He scratched his head. What was the assignment again?

Spencer fumbled through the dozens of papers he had taken with him into the studio—including a long, handwritten letter from his dad about his baby sister Carly, who had just started kindergarten, and the already crumbled brochure Granddad had sent earlier about Seattle Law School.

"Just think about it!" Granddad had urged before hugging Spencer goodbye right before he left for college. "Keep all your options open! You would make a great lawyer."

Spencer nearly retched at the thought of him in a suit in a court room. Besides, had Granddad seen his grades? Sure, he wasn't dumb by any means, but he definitely wasn't going to pass the LSATs.

Thankfully, the assignment for Sculpting 101 was beneath the brochure. Spencer smoothed out the instructions and squinted for the keyword. Right, color! The assignment was color. He sighed with relief. Red was a color, so he didn't need a statement. (Although, if he thought about it, the fireworks could represent the military complex in America…)

* * *

Later that day, after Spencer ran back his dorm to catch a quick power nap and another cup of coffee, he hurried back to the classroom. His professor began the grading session by slowly walking around the room, touching and turning the sculptures, which were all notably smaller than his—a pro in Spencer's book, while occasionally murmuring "hmm, yes" or "maybe next time." Next to him, his classmates watched with terror every time the professor made a mark in his grading book. Even though he knew he shouldn't let one person's opinion ruin his thoughts on art, Spencer's insides felt tangled by the time the professor reached his sculpture.

"What is this?" the man barked.

Spencer said weakly, "A fireworks sculpture!"

The man raised his eyebrow. "But you were supposed to focus on color."

"But there is color!" Spencer rushed over to his sculpture, grabbing the edge of the circle in his hand. "See, beneath the fireworks."

His professor shook his head. "Spencer, that's not what I—"

"Look! It even spins!" he blustered, desperate to avoid any criticism.

Spencer grabbed the wheel and violently spun it. The fireworks shook the wheel and its stand, making it look like it was dancing. It also must have caused friction, because the next thing he knew, one of the fireworks had ignited.

"It's going to blow!" one his classmates shrieked.

The class screamed, which Spencer thought was a little overdramatic, and darted, pushing and shoving, out of the studio. Spencer and the professor crouched next to his piece when the firework rocketed off of the sculpture and exploded in the classroom, destroying the pieces of art that lined the walls and igniting his professor's sweater on fire.

When Spencer stood, he saw his professor was smoking. He sheepishly plucked a flaming string off of the man, and conceded, "At least no one got hurt."

Grade 1: D.


	2. Fall Freshman: Beginner Painting

**Big thank you to Invader Johnny for my first review on this saga! I look forward to hearing from more of you! :)**

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Grade 2: Beginner's Painting 

After his first disastrous sculpting class, Spencer decided he should probably follow the rules—at least for a little bit while he got to know each professor and what they liked. But, as he was quickly learning in his beginner's painting class, following the rules was _so boring._

I mean, how was he learning anything from painting lines? Up and down, left and right, and if they were feeling daring enough, diagonally. Spencer was ready to tear his hair out by the time he finished drawing blue lines across his canvas. This was going to be the longest hour and fifteen minutes of his life.

At least, he thought that until he heard the girl next to him sigh and mutter, "This is such a waste of time."

Spencer's heart leapt into his throat. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed her before, but suddenly, she was all he could see. She had long, wavy deep red hair that fell past her shoulders, and was wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses that she kept scrunching up her nose. Instead of painting lines, she had already completed a full field of green grass. The texture in it was so realistic that Spencer couldn't help but stare.

The girl caught him looking and snapped, "What?"

He stammered, "N-nothing! It's just... You're really talented."

The girl's guard fell at once. She smirked. "Thank you. I tried to get into an advanced class, but they said freshman have to take beginner's painting. I wish there was a way to test out of it."

"You could probably teach the class," he said in awe.

She laughed and turned her attention back to the sky she barely begun. "Yeah, right. I'm not that good."

Spencer looked at his own dull canvas by compare. He hastily dipped his brush in black paint and colored over his tedious blue lines.

As he painted, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Charlotte," she said, "But call me Charlie."

"Alright, Charlie-not-Charlotte." She snickered. "I'm Spencer. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Charlie quickly finished the sky in a few masterful strokes, while Spencer worked on decorating his now black canvas. While Charlie had skill, Spencer only had impulse. He knew the theory of painting, and had taken a few lessons in art classes in high school, but he didn't have the same technique that she did. He made small yellow dots, which he soon recognized as stars, but wasn't sure where to go from there.

"Make a ghost," Charlie suggested. "The grey and white would look nice against the dark backdrop."

"Thanks," he said and took her advice. His hand wasn't very steady, though, so the ghost looked like it was shaking when it should have been still.

Slowly, the professor, a thin woman with a hook nose, walked behind each student to take a look at their progress. She was much more positive than the sculpture professor, Spencer thought, as she said encouraging words to each student. When she came to Spencer and Charlie's canvases, she gasped.

"What is this? You are supposed to be doing lines!" she shrieked.

Charlie scrunched her nose. "I know how to do lines. I thought I'd practice texture."

"Why, that's not until a few weeks from now!"

The red-haired girl shrugged. "Oh well."

The professor sighed when she saw Spencer's piece. "You too, hmm?"

"I tried," he said sheepishly. The confidence he'd felt from defying his professor was quickly draining; he knew his GPA couldn't take another hit so early in the game.

"Fine," she said tersely and walked away.

"She'll get over it," Charlie muttered under her breath, working now on a large oak tree.

The two painted in silence for moment. Around the ghost, Spencer added some green lines for good measure. This way, he wasn't totally breaking the rules. But Charlie seemed unfazed the professor's brief shock, as she filled in the lines of bark and leaves. Spencer's heart tightened as he watched her hands glide across the canvas. She was bold, she was beautiful… His eyes wandered onto her lips. He wondered if she was as good a kisser as she was a painter.

"Hey," Spencer said lowly, grabbing her attention. "Would you like to go out sometime?"

She shook her head, but said, "You don't even know me."

"I'd like to," he said encouragingly.

Charlie lowered her pallet and shot Spencer a grin.

"Maybe another time. I'd like to see more of your work first. I don't date bad artists," she teased.

"I understand," he said coolly, even though her rejection stung. "Maybe next class?"

Charlie snorted, and focused on her work. Even though she hadn't said yes, Spencer felt like he could fly for the rest of the day.

Grade 2: B.


	3. Fall Freshman: Art History I

**Many thanks to Invader Johnny and the-stuttering-kiwi for taking the time to review! You two are the best!**

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Grade 3: Art History I

The semester was already halfway over, so Spencer had gotten a good idea of which classes were worth attending and which were worth snoozing through. Out of all of his classes, including his general education requirements, Spencer was absolutely certain that Art History was only created to torture unsuspecting art students into insanity.

It didn't help that his class was at 8 in the morning. Not only was he fighting his eyelids to physically stay open, but he was also struggling to keep his grumbling stomach to an acceptable volume. Socko always told him to set his alarm earlier so he could get up to eat breakfast in the dining hall, but the one thing he loved more than food was sleep. Spencer had been staying up very late the last few nights—a little after 3 in the morning—to work on projects for his other classes, so he needed every second of sleep he got.

Not to mention that this morning was a particularly bad morning for waking up. Spencer slept through both of his alarms, his roommate's alarms, and two early morning phone calls from his dad (well, they were probably from little Carly, who would usually gleefully say how much she missed her big brother). He was lucky to roll out of bed ten minutes before class and sprint across campus to make this dumb class on time.

That being said, Spencer typically alternated his art history class between watching the clock for 9, when he would rush over to the dining hall for breakfast with Socko, and taking brief desk naps. Today was definitely a nap day: the lights were low because of a powerpoint presentation and he already knew the topic they were covering (pop art in the 60s).

He rested his head on his arm, careful to make sure he was holding his pen upright with his free hand to make it look like he was just taking very close notes. At first, Spencer tried to pay attention—he really did. But the professor's droll voice was so soothing in the dark classroom, and suddenly her voice drifted farther and farther away…

"Spencer!" the professor barked.

Spencer jolted awake, sputtering, "What? Yes?"

Around him, his classmates giggled at his frantic display. It was then that he suddenly noticed that the classroom was brightly lit, the powerpoint was over, and his professor was looming over him. Spencer could feel his cheeks redden, but he cleared his throat and put on a confident face.

"I'm sorry," he said clearly. "I don't know what happened."

The professor clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

"You're lucky you're doing well," she said, handing him a paper. As soon as he took it, she moved onto the student behind him.

His classmates whispered loudly around him, discussing their grades and what a dork he was for falling asleep in class (although he couldn't believe he was the first to ever do so). Spencer tried to ignore them and focused on his grade for the midterm he'd taken earlier in the week. He couldn't believe his luck!

Grade 3: A-.


	4. Fall Freshman: Beginner's Painting

**Thank you to Invader Johnny for the review, and those of you who have been following and favoriting! Let's keep the Spencer love going!  
**

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Grade 4: Beginner's Painting

"How was your break?"

Charlie jumped at the sound of Spencer's voice. She placed her hand on her chest like she was trying to physically slow her heart.

"Good," she finally sputtered, shooting him a small smile. "It was nice to get away. How about yours? Do anything fun?"

"I got to see my sister Carly," he blathered.

Spencer usually went into Beginner's Painting with every intention of focusing and completing his project (today they were learning about still life—Charlie's paintbrush had already created an incredibly lifelike version of the pear in the bowl on the table in front of them), but as soon as he saw Charlie's cute freckled face, his mind couldn't focus on anything else.

"She's young, right?" Charlie asked.

"Four," he clarified. "I took her to the zoo. Otherwise, I just spent time with my dad and Socko."

"Good thing you're not sick of him," she teased.

Even though they didn't hang out much after class, Charlie spoke of Spencer's friends like they were her own. He couldn't lie—he was dying to ask her out again, but he didn't want to push her away or scare her off. He hoped she would let him know when he was ready.

"Exactly," he agreed. Charlie smiled, but didn't respond.

Spencer licked his lips, unsure of what else to say. (Well, he had a million things he'd love to say to her, really.) His canvas, plain and ragged compared to his friend's, desperately needed attention. He hastily dipped his brush into a green and blended it with white to make a cooler color. To be honest, he really didn't care about this painting. But his grade in the class—a measly 2.5/4.0—needed him to care. Spencer tried to copy Charlie's style and the way she held her hand, patiently gliding over the canvas. His hand shook, but he managed to fill in the outline of the pear he drew. He sat back and observed. Well, it could have been worse.

"Great work, Charlotte," the professor said gleefully, placing her hand on Charlie's shoulder. "You have such promise as a painter."

"Thank you," she said, her face suddenly matching her hair color.

When the professor loomed over Spencer, she forced a smile. "Ah, Spencer, you'll get there."

Spencer had no idea what to make of that comment. He knew he wasn't a painter, and that was fine. He just needed to pass this class.

As soon as their professor was out of earshot, Charlie said, "She has a hard time appreciating different kinds of styles."

"What do you mean?" Spencer wondered.

"I mean," she bit her lip, thinking. "You're spontaneous and sporadic. You like to pop and be edgy."

Spencer couldn't help but grin. So she wasn't scared by all his insane energy? That was promising.

"Yeah?" he said, fishing for more.

"You think outside of the box, which you know is a problem in the art world. You're talented, just different," she said.

Spencer wanted to burst and ask her out, but he focused his energy on restraint. "Thanks," he said instead, "You're a good friend."

"You too," she grinned. After a beat, she added, "We should go out some time."

Spencer leapt out of his seat and yelped, "Hell yes!"

The class stared at him. Charlie bust out laughing at his eccentric display, but Spencer didn't care. He felt like running laps around the art building. But first he needed to sit down and finish this painting.

"You need to relax," Charlie said with a grin once the class had composed itself.

"No," he teased, picking up his paint brush. "That's not me."

Grade 4: C+.


	5. Fall Freshman: Finals: Sculpting 101

**Gracias to Invader Johnny and pinkspidey62 for reviewing! It means so much to me!**

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Grade 5: Sculpting 101  


When Charlie said hanging out, she apparently didn't mean _hanging out—_you know, the kind where you held hands and snuck kisses and maybe, if he was lucky, felt her boobs. She swiftly, but kindly, reminded Spencer on their alleged first date (ice skating at the local rink) that she only wanted to be friends. So they were. They started eating meals together more often and hung out in the art building or in the dorms for bad movie marathons, usually with Socko. Spencer was bummed, but he didn't mind: her friendship wasn't a second place prize to him.

In fact, the added friendship made the time fly by. Before he knew it, it was already finals week for his first semester. He'd made decent grades in his other courses throughout the dreaded, long week; all that was left was his original nemesis: Sculpting 101.

Even the professor had to admit that Spencer had gotten better over the semester. Classmates stopped cowering in terror of him sometime around October, and his professor, a total lame-wad who thought too much of the rules, did give him a good pointer every now and then. Spencer was hesitant to admit that he was a better artist because of school… but hey, he wasn't any worse.

More than anything, he was glad that Sculpting 101's final didn't have any real parameters.

"Use all the tools you've learned this semester to make something great," the professor advised. He then turned to Spencer. "Something without fireworks."

Fine. Point taken.

As it was almost Christmas time, Spencer decided to make something with lights. Socko helped him find an old hotel trolley at the junkyard. The metal was rusted and dirt covered the bottom of the cart. The two friends spent late nights refurbishing and polishing the cart until it looked… well, not good as new, but pretty decent. Spencer took strands of colorful Christmas lights—orange for himself, green for Socko, red for Charlie, and pink for Carly—and wound them across the arches. His roommate, an engineering student, helped him fashion a charger that wouldn't need to be plugged into the wall. Once he had the trolley assembled, he took a step back: it looked kind of plain and dull, but maybe it was best not to take a chance right now.

On the morning of his final—the last one before he could pack up his car and go home for a month—Spencer anxiously awaited his grade. Instead of the professor walking around to each student, everyone was assigned a time to come in and talk about their project. Spencer, of course, was dead last at 9:45 in the morning.

"You know, Spencer," the professor sighed, gesturing to the lit trolley. "I expected more from you."

He cocked his eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You always take such great chances! Show such passion! Where was that in this piece?"

Spencer shrugged. "I, uh… I went to the junkyard to get the parts. This is about family and friends… and consumerism," he said.

"Consumerism," the professor replied flatly. "You don't usually make statements in that way. What happened to the boy who nearly blew up my classroom?"

"I didn't want to fail," he said plainly.

"Technically speaking, this is great," the professor determined. "I see what you're saying. The holiday season sucks away at family time because we spend so much of the holidays in hotels. But it's not Spencer."

"I…" Spencer stammered.

"I don't want technically great." The professor tapped his pen against the table. "I want Spencer Shay. You could be an amazing sculptor. So push yourself and take chances."

Spencer was overwhelmed by feelings of pride and support. Even though he'd spent most of the semester at odds with the professor, he stood and hugged the stout old man, lifting him off of his feet.

"Thank you," Spencer said. "It means a lot."

"Have a great break," the professor said. "Now, can you do me a favor?"

"Yeah?"

"Please put me down!"

Grade 5: B.


	6. Spring Freshman: Art History II

**I'm trying to mix up the silly with some serious so I have a better plot. Let me know if you think it works with a review!**

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Grade 6: Art History 102

Spencer never thought he'd think this, but he was so glad to be back in Art History class. Yes, he had to take a second semester of the mind-blowingly boring class with the same painfully dull professor. Every time she lit up the projector to start another PowerPoint, he thought seriously about smashing his head against the wall.

Of course, there were some perks to the boring class, including his recurring nap time (at least this semester he scheduled the class for the early afternoon, right after lunch time, so didn't spend the class period battling his talkative stomach). Today, though, his body was craving some sort of stimulation. He felt like he would burst if he sat in his seat any longer; he bounced his legs and toes, and drummed his fingers against his desk impatiently until the girl next to him loudly shushed him.

Spencer wanted to move, because if he moved, then he didn't have to think.

He knew his dad and granddad meant well. He really did. In fact, Spencer appreciated that they were interested in his life and future; he just wished they weren't _so negative_ about his dream to be a sculptor. For the four weeks he was home on winter break, Spencer artfully dodged the many Seattle Law School pamphlets that seemed to spring up in his bedroom and on the kitchen counter. But while he could avoid printed words, he couldn't avoid conversations, all of which felt more like interventions. Each time, his dad and granddad both "gently" (as they insisted) suggested other classes for him to take.

"I'm doing gen eds too," Spencer insisted for the millionth time. "Art classes are my electives. I haven't declared a major yet."

"Maybe you could drop your painting class for a political science class," Granddad said above Carly's gleeful squeals.

Spencer watched as his little sister aggressively bounced a bright ball over and over and over. The sparkling colors made him think of a marble, which made him think of a great idea for a round, clay sculpture. It could represent the earth. Or even Seattle. Or maybe…

"Spencer," his dad snapped, bringing him back to reality. "How would you make a living as an artist?"

Spencer honestly hadn't thought that far ahead. But he argued nonetheless, "I'd freelance. Or get my work in a museum."

Carly laughed loudly. "Again! Again!"

"Do you know how hard it is to get into a museum?" Granddad said acidly, like he was taking joy in Spencer's naïve thinking. "And how many other artists you'd be competing with, even in the Seattle area?"

"I can't be a lawyer," Spencer insisted. Carly's bright ball bounced towards him, so he picked it up and tossed it down the hallway. Like a puppy, Carly chased after it.

"Maybe not a lawyer, then," his dad conceded. "But a businessman. An airman, like me. Anything but an artist!"

"You're still young," Granddad agreed. "You have time to change your mind."

Spencer bit his lip. He could make money as an artist. He knew he could do it. His fury surged from a tight pain in his stomach up into his throat. He struggled to swallow the words, but his anger continued to build until he blew.

"This is what I want to do," he spat. When Carly ran back into the living room where they all sat, Spencer consciously untwisted his face. "You're right: I'm young. I've got time."

"Just take a class or two in business or law. Maybe you'll like it," Granddad urged.

"Fine," Spencer said bitterly right before he stormed into his bedroom.

* * *

Even thinking about the memory made Spencer want to scream. But he couldn't because he was in class. Still. This class took forever. Why was it taking forever?

"Spencer," his professor said suddenly, pointing to the screen. "Could you tell me who made this painting?"

Spencer rolled his eyes and shook his head. Normally he would have laughed off being called out in class, but the anger in him felt like poison.

"I don't know," he said flatly.

"Pay attention next time," she scolded.

Spencer grunted. Him, a lawyer? Yeah, right.

Grade 6: F.


	7. Spring Freshman: Drawing 101

**Thanks to Invader Johnny and the-stuttering-kiwi for reviewing! You light up my life. Much like an elaborate sculpture from Spencer.**

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Grade 7: Drawing 101

If Spencer hated the way his dad and granddad nagged him, then he absolutely loathed these stupid beginner's art classes. He understood the theory of needing to know how to draw—how to control your hand, mimic what you see… but it was such a waste of time. Spencer could feel passion and creativity yearning to burst from him, but he was trying very hard to behave and get good grades so that maybe, just maybe, his dad and granddad would leave him alone.

Today, the class had to pick an animal and draw it in different styles that they've been studying: realistic, cartoony, comic book… Spencer thought a drawing of a bunny would make a good gift for little Carly. His sister loved bunnies. She had stuffed animals, t-shirts, posters—you name it, she had a bunny on it. He wasn't sure where the bunny obsession came from, but his dad curbed her desire for a real bunny with all sorts of bunny-themed things. Of course, Spencer didn't have the heart to tell his dad he was thinking about buying Carly a bunny for her birthday…

The only downside to being one of the only men in art classes full of women was that he attracted a higher level of scrutiny. Women were naturally wary of men they didn't know, which he got. He also understood that some of the other students didn't understand that he had a much younger sister. Today, though, he noticed he was garnering some suspicious stares to the tune of "why was this 19 year old man obsessively sketching a cute little bunny?", but he took it in stride.

"That guy seems like a creep," Spencer heard the blonde sitting behind him tell her friend. "Who does that?"

Does what? Draw a bunny? Sheesh, some girls got so worked up over nothing.

"I don't know," the other girl clicked her tongue. "So freaking weird."

Spencer wanted to ignore them; but why were they talking so loudly about him when he was right there? Couldn't they just work quietly and mind their own business?

"Look, he's doing it again!" the first girl hissed.

Spencer arched his eyebrow. Well, he never stopped "doing it" really. Drawing a bunny in different styles takes time.

"God, I know," the other girl sighed. "What a loser."

Just like that, he couldn't take it anymore.

"What!" Spencer snapped, turning on the girls. "What's your problem?"

The girls recoiled, taken aback by his tone.

"What's wrong with you?" the blonde girl asked.

"Why are you talking about me like that?" he demanded.

"We're not," the second girl said haughtily. She glanced around the classroom until the others stopped staring and whispered, "Our professor. He keeps standing too close to the girl up there."

Spencer's heart dropped into his stomach. So they weren't talking about him. Figured he overreacted.

"Charlie warned us about him," the girl continued in a low voice. "She said—"

His heart swooped back up. "Charlie? You know Charlie Hillard?"

The blonde opened her mouth to respond when he noticed a large shadow looming over him.

"Mr. Shay!" the professor boomed, suddenly above him. Behind him, the girls shrunk into their seats, pretending to sketch. "How's your animal coming along?"

"G-good," he stammered, flustered.

He handed his sketchbook to the round professor, who puckered his lips when he scrutinized it.

"Why a rabbit?" he asked.

"My little sister really likes them," he explained. "What do you think?"

The professor shrugged. "Eh. I've seen better."

He dropped the sketchbook back on Spencer's desk, and, as he noticed, shot a little too friendly smile to the girls behind him.

The blonde muttered, "I might drop this class."

"I can keep him away from you," Spencer said.

The girls smiled gratefully. "Thanks," the second one said.

"We'll tell Charlie you rescued us," the blonde teased.

Even though she might not have been serious, Spencer's heart fluttered.

Well, the day could have been worse.

Grade 7: C.


	8. Spring Freshman: Midterm: Art History II

**I feel bad about not updating quite as regularly as I was, so here's another chapter! :D**

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Grade 8: Art History II

"Who was the painter who created scenes of everyday life in American culture during the early 1900s?"

Spencer closed his eyes and wracked his brain. Nothing was immediately coming to mind. "Um… Rembrandt?"

Charlie clicked her tongue and threw the bright green flash card over the edge of the bed. Spencer watched it float to the dorm floor, hoping in the very back of his mind that his roommate wouldn't mind the mess.

"Nope. Rockwell. Here's an easy one for you… Who painted soup cans during the 50s?"

"Warhol!" he grinned. "Pop art I can do. Everything else…"

"You need to study," Charlie scolded. She rolled onto her back on his roommate's bed, holding the cards above her head. "If you don't get good grades, you could get kicked out of the sculpture program."

"Which is so dumb," Socko chimed in.

He was sitting at Spencer's desk, writing a paper for his American history class. Seeing him grunt and groan through the paper made him glad he hadn't taken a history class yet. Spencer was bad at memorizing facts—which was becoming all the more clear with every question Charlie was quizzing him on for his mid-term.

"I know. Art isn't about grades," Spencer lamented. He was laying on his back in his bed, tossing a bouncy ball up and down in the air. It was the only thing keeping him awake during this late-night impromptu study session with his friends.

"It kind of is," Charlie disagreed. "How else do you know if you're any good?"

"Art is subjective though," Spencer argued. "What one professor loves another might hate."

"That's not true," Charlie blustered. "Professors always love what I do!"

"That's because you're too good for school, Charlie. Spencer, you just have to play the game," Socko said, causing the red-haired girl to blush. "That's life. Pander to what the person likes and you'll be alright."

"I guess that's true," Charlie sighed. She flipped through the flash cards before holding one up. "Okay, you ready?"

"No," Spencer threw the ball to the ground. It landed with a loud thunk and rolled under his roommate's bed. "I just wanna make art."

"School first, art later," Charlie said. He groaned, but she persisted, "Name two qualities found in the impressionist movement."

"Why does that matter? It's not going to help me make a better sculpture."

"Spencer, come on. You're being so bratty tonight."

Spencer opened his mouth to reply, but Socko beat him to it. "Yeah, man. Just deal. I wanna make socks but it ain't happenin' until I graduate."

"We sound like a bad joke waiting to happen," Charlie giggled. "A sculptor, a painter, and a sock designer walk into a bar…"

"And get trashed?" Socko joked. "I'm in."

But the idea didn't sound so bad to Spencer. His brain jumped from the bar to graduation, and suddenly he was bursting with an idea.

"Let's all get a place in Seattle together after school," Spencer suggested.

"That's a long ways away," Charlie said.

"We'll still be friends," he smiled. "All of us. It'll be fun."

"What if I want to go home?" she posed.

"Then we can all live in Portland," Spencer said. He surprised himself by not hating the idea of moving out of state. So he'd be a little farther from Carly, but it was only a few hours difference.

She smirked. "Well, alright. Don't twist my arm."

"Portland would love these socks," Socko said, rolling up his pant leg to reveal a black sock with blinking blue lights.

"That's the spirit!" The room chuckled. After a brief moment of silence, Spencer said, "Unusual angles and accurate light depiction."

"Huh?" Charlie said.

"The qualities of impressionist paintings," Spencer said. "Next."

Charlie rolled her neck to meet his stare. She smiled gratefully at him, her lips making his stomach clench uncomfortably.

"You'll pass this exam for sure," she said airily, and he rolled his eyes.

Grade 8: B.


	9. Spring Freshman: Sculpture Break

**It's Friday and I'm ready for a nap! How about anyone else?**

* * *

Spencer wasn't sure what he was making, but he knew it was going to be awesome. He rolled a thick wad of clay between his hands, flattening and then balling again, waiting for some sort of inspiration to strike in the dull, dark basement classroom at one in the morning.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, inhaling the earthy scent of clay. He wouldn't even be up this late if it wasn't for his sculpture professor from last semester.

"_Spencer!" he said brightly from down the hall, stopping Spencer in his tracks. He was anxious to rush to lunch so he could hang out with Charlie and Socko, but he wasn't about to run away. _

_Well… he could probably get away. If he ran now. Oh, no, too late, here he comes._

"_How are you doing? How's classes this semester?" the professor wondered._

"_Oh, fine," Spencer said vaguely, his mind dancing with visions of chicken tenders and soda. "Can't wait to get back into a sculpture class, though."_

"_Good thinking!" his eyes glittered. "I was wondering if you could do something for me? I'm teaching a class on clay tomorrow and was hoping you could whip something up for me really quick to show the students. I know how talented you are. But if you're too busy…"_

_Spencer didn't even think about it. "Yeah, sure!"_

"_Great! I'll look for it in my classroom by 8am tomorrow. See you then!"_

* * *

Spencer grumbled, remembering the conversation. 8am sounded like a reasonable deadline earlier this morning, but after he factored in other homework, a long dinner with his friends, and a three hour power nap, he was sure he was toast.

A clay sculpture was too vague was the problem. He surprised himself by yearning for some sort of direction, but his innate inspiration was just not happening tonight.

Clay… clay… clay… He kept repeating the word over and over in his head.

Across the hall from him, he heard a loud crash of metal followed by, "Shit!"

Without dropping the clay, Spencer rushed to the noise and shouted, "I'm coming! Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?"

"No," the voice pathetically replied.

Through the doorway, Spencer saw a pouting, dark-skinned girl sitting on the floor, metal roads, splattered canvas and paint all around her. Her cheek was brushed with bright orange paint and her glasses were sitting crooked on her nose.

"You need help?" he offered, holding up his ball of clay. "A pot, perhaps?"

The girl laughed. "No, thank you, I'm okay. I'm just going nuts. I had an idea for a painting so I thought I'd give it a shot. But I guess I fell asleep against the canvas and it broke."

Spencer snorted, and the girl rolled her eyes. "Ha ha, very funny, I know. What are you doing up?"

"Trying to make a sculpture. I can't think of anything."

Just as he said those words, his brain suddenly kicked to life. The colorful, broken canvas, the loud noises, their laughter…

"Boom!" he yelped, and then ran back into the clay room.

His hands worked quickly and skillfully, bringing his sudden vision to life: a firework. It was his first impression. Once he focused, the clay molded beneath his fingertips. He was so excited to have an idea, so excited to create art, that nothing else mattered.

He wasn't sure how long the girl from across the hall was standing in the doorway when she asked, "What was it?"

Despite himself, he jumped. "A firework," he said simply, still molding.

She made a noise of understanding, still watching him. After a beat, she said, "You're impressive."

"Thanks!"

"What's your name?"

"Spencer. You?"

"Katie." When he didn't respond, too focused on the clay, she said, "Good luck. I'll see you around."

Spencer finished the firework at 3:30 in the morning. It wasn't perfect by any means, but he was satisfied. The next morning, he dropped it off for his professor at 7:45 in the morning… after he spent 4 hours asleep at the clay wheel.

Grade 9: A.


	10. Spring Freshman - Drawing 101

**HELLO. To be honest, I hit a heck of a writers' block with this story. I think I bit off more than I could chew by doing 50 mini chapters. But I'll try to keep plugging ahead!**

**Anyway, onward!**

* * *

Grade 10: Drawing 101

To be honest, Spencer didn't feel much like going to class lately.

His life felt like it was weighing heavily on his shoulders, and he was only a freshman! He couldn't imagine how life would be once he declared a major and started taking higher-level classes. Between wanting to spend time with Socko, Charlie, and his pretty new friend Katie, studying for tests, doing homework, and actually making it to class, Spencer knew he had to prioritize.

He was trying to be responsible. Really. He took a look at each professor's syllabus and made notes about how many classes he could skip and when. But not everything always went to plan.

Spencer had already used up all of his sick days for his Drawing class, but right near the end of the semester, he came down with some sort of awful stomach pain and sickness; it was so bad, it felt like something was physically trying to burst from his stomach, and if he moved more than a few feet, his body revolted. So his emailed his teacher that he literally couldn't make it out of bed and curled into a ball beneath his covers. His professor couldn't fault him for being sick…

Right?

"I heard you failed drawing," Charlie said to him matter-of-factly over breakfast one morning. "At least, that's what my friends in your class are saying."

Spencer, whose stomach still felt queasy, snorted. Even though he was still not feeling entirely well again, he was beginning to experience stir crazy syndrome; he just needed to get out _somewhere_, even if it was to class.

"You heard wrong," he countered, shoveling his a spoonful of sugary cereal in his mouth.

Charlie smiled knowingly, and his stomach clenched for a reason other than the flu. They'd been friendly all semester, and Spencer knew he should start moving on, but every time he saw her, it was like he fell in love all over again.

"I guess you'll get to see today," she teased.

He rolled his eyes. She needed more faith. These sorts of things always worked out for Spencer.

* * *

Well, until they didn't.

"I'm failing?" he gaped, holding his latest progress report.

"You missed too many classes," his professor said flatly, clearly not interested in hearing whatever story Spencer was going to spin for him.

"But I was sick. I couldn't get out of bed for days!" Spencer protested. His back was still sore from doing nothing but lying in bed for those days.

"For, hmm," his professor glanced at the report. "Six days this semester? All happen to be my class?"

His face reddened. "I, well, yeah, I skipped some, but then I really did get sick!"

The professor sighed. "Sorry, Spencer. Unless you can ace the final, you're going to have to take this class again in the fall."

Spencer's face tightened. He could already hear his dad reaming him out for failing a class—an easy class at that.

"How about extra credit?" he begged. "I can't fail this class."

The professor considered his request for a moment and then said, "I'll let you know if anything comes up."

Even though it wasn't a yes, it also wasn't a no; Spencer felt relieved all the same.

"Thank you!" he gushed. "I promise I'll do better!"

"You'd better," he said gruffly, turning back to his grade book.

Grade 10: F.


End file.
